I frame the means of his work,
Faceless and boyful
Dissolving somewhere between love and abuse
Successfully regenerated in some rigid idealism
Shaking the wings of his terrible youth
Calling to join him -
The wretched and plastic
No more alone or himself could he be
No shortage of sordid,
No protest from me

He's The Angel of Death in The Ketamine Scene

Feeling less human and hooked on his flesh
Straight from the fields,
All frightened and fertile
****** and raw,
But I swear it is sweet
Lease the unsettling,
I'll wonder the concrete
Wonder if better now having survived

*He's The Angel of Death in The Ketamine Scene

I stare at the mirror
A creature stares back at me
She has no features on her
But she keeps on banging her fist to be free.

I stare into the giant river
The ripples wrinkle her smooth face
Devoid of nose, devoid of eyes, devoid of lips,
Her face, I see, is the emptiest place.

I stare at my reflection,
But I'm acquainted with an unknown countenance,
Staring back at me like an empty piece of paper,
Begging words to be written on her to make sense.

But making sense wasn't enough.

Trap in an isolated era.
View me as faceless persona
Of make-belief identities
In this world filled with fantasies.

I write because I am tired,
To pen the burden in this poet’s ride.



*© Pax